The Montague dining room held ten comfortably and twenty when it needed to.
Tonight it was at seven. Rosa had set the good china without being asked, the candles in the silver holders that only came out for family, the specific red that Savio reserved for evenings that were not business. These details meant something. Sera had grown up reading this room the way other children read picture books.
The three family associates were men her father had known for decades. Comfortable presences, the kind who understood that dinner at this table was always also something else, and who had made peace with that long ago. They kissed Sera on both cheeks when she came in, called her by name, and asked nothing about the divorce, because they already knew what mattered and understood that saying so wou
